


The Hollywood Affair

by Anonymous



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Other, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roleplay, Seduction, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Solo is a small-time actor poised to become an A-list leading man with his upcoming major motion picture, and Gaby and Illya plan to leverage his connections to uncover a THRUSH plot at Solo’s studio.</p><p>Or: the one where Napoleon is an actor, Gaby gets hired as his assistant, Illya plays paparazzo, and it’s all just an excuse for porn.</p><p>(See warnings in author's notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hollywood Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: plays with the conceit of an actor taking advantage of an assistant - in this case, it is a wholly consensual situation (the power dynamic is not what it seems), but if that bothers you, please find another fic better suited to your tastes.
> 
> No beta; errors, if pointed out, will be corrected with alacrity.

Hollywood, Gaby finds, is tiresome. Rich people are all the same, from Europe to the Americas: self-congratulatory for small acts of charity and large acts of thievery, perpetually trying to out-do each other in both decorum and in acts of outlandish debauchery. It almost makes her work for UNCLE seem banal, some days.

It’s laughably easy to get the job as an actor’s assistant; she wears a skirt a shade too short and shoes a fraction too cheap, affects a light mid-American drawl, pushes forward a sparse but passable resume at the agent’s office, and she’s got the keys to a private manor in under an hour. After all, who’s going to refuse a comely and naive hopeful from the sticks if she wants to feed herself into the maw of the celebrity machine?

As the company car climbs up the winding road into the Hollywood Hills, she enjoys the view and the comfort. The job is straightforward enough: find out which producers are letting THRUSH agents use their studios to launder stolen money, and shut them down - _discreetly_. The latter was the sticking point with Illya, as he still finds it difficult to hide his accent, his height, and his temper. This leaves Gaby on her own in the more vulnerable role while he works as reconnaissance and distant backup as a paparazzo.

She’s let off at the doorstep of a sleek modern mini-mansion, what the agent had called _one of the studio’s quaint little retreats_. Between the fashionable architecture, impeccable landscaping, and the location, she knows it costs a small fortune. Nothing but the best for one of their most promising rising stars, and that includes the company he keeps.

Hence the assistant’s job. She lets herself get a good look at the layout of the place, miming artless awe as the car pulls away. Glancing over her shoulder, up the hill and through the trees, she can spot the glint of light from a lens. She lowers the rim of her shades low enough to tip Illya a wink, and can imagine how that makes his teeth grind.

Gaby takes a deep breath and presses the button for the doorbell, hearing a melodious glissando through the glass.

“Come in,” a voice says, and she opens the door into an empty foyer, “I’m in the office, if you’d like to join me.” She follows the sound to a doorway, takes the two steps down at the threshold, and peers around to find the speaker.

Standing at the wet bar, pouring two drinks, is Napoleon Solo, the _terribly_ handsome leading man of the studio’s latest film. It’s gone through six titles in as many months, and rumor has it that he’s gone through twice as many starlets in the same time; he’s certainly not wanting for companionship according to the tabloids. But now, it seems, he is alone; _they_ are alone.

Gaby drops her eyes to the carpet, twisting her grip on the handle of her bag. “Mr. Solo,” she says, pitching her voice a shade high, a bit breathless, letting the words tumble, “it’s _such_ a pleasure to meet you. I love your work-” so far, only a few bit parts in daytime dramas and one in a police procedural, but it’s enough to embroider flattery with, “-and I’ve been following you in all the papers. I’m _so_ excited to work with you.” She glances up at him through her lashes to see what effect her words are having.

Solo stills over the ice bucket as he looks at her quizzically. “...Gabrielle, isn’t it?” he asks, catching on, and she nods. “You’re not at all what I expected. The agency said you were a firecracker.”

It’s hard to feign a blush, but with the look he’s giving her, she doesn’t have to. He’s as charismatic in person as he is on screen. “A job interview is one thing,” she says, shrugging. “Actually getting to meet you is another.”

Solo gives her a brilliant smile, and she knows she’s got him hooked. Now to hope that Illya gets into position outside in time for the show.

(It is very interesting to see what lengths people will go, to protect their investment - especially if those people are THRUSH, and the success of their film depends on the unsullied reputation of their new star.)

“I hope you don’t mind rye, Gabrielle,” he says, offering a tumbler containing a generous splash of amber on ice. She shakes her head.

When she takes the glass, she lets her fingers linger alongside his for a moment. “You can call me Gaby,” she says, “um, if you want.”

“Well,” he says, lifting his glass in a toast that she echoes, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Gaby.” Their glasses tap together with a clear chime.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Solo,” she says, taking a drink. The whiskey is good, smooth and warm with a sharp edge that sends a light shiver down the back of her neck.

“Oh, no, that won’t do,” he says, leading her over to the pair of chairs in front of his desk with a light touch on her elbow. “Napoleon, please.”

He asks her where she’s from, what she did before she came to Hollywood, what dreams she’s pursuing here, and her cover story trips easily off her tongue. She wants to tell him not to bother with the formalities, but there’s a glint of amusement in his expression as he watches her talk.

Not only does he know the sport she’s playing, but he’s having his own fun by not making it easy.

 _Fine_ , she thinks, _if_ that’s _how it’s going to be._ She trails off in the middle of an answer, biting her lip, watching his gaze flick down at the gesture. “Here I am, nattering on about myself. Tell me, what will you need me to do for you?”

Napoleon leans back in his chair, swirling the last dregs of his drink around thoughtfully. She takes the opportunity to admire him, broad shoulders and trim hips, expressive mouth, and _very_ blue eyes. She could cut to the chase right now, drop to her knees on the tiled floor and fit herself into the space between his legs, run her palms up his thighs… but that would be conceding the game.

“You know, the usual,” he says, draining his tumbler in a flash, the crystal catching the sun and sending sparks. “Manage my schedule, run a few errands, lend a helping hand here and there.”

Gaby ignores the bait about _helping hands_ and stands up, smoothing down her skirt. “Then let me refill that for you,” she says, taking his glass and suiting actions to words, making sure her hips swing just so as she walks to the bar and back.

It’s his turn to let his fingers graze hers as she gives him his refill. She doesn’t take her seat again in the armchair but instead leans on the desk, propping one hip and thigh against the edge, casual and careless as she pretends to survey the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows, finishing her own drink.

The pose also - _wholly_ accidentally, of course - lets him see beneath her skirt. She can tell when he realizes she’s not wearing any knickers by the way his jaw flexes when he swallows, the way his eyes darken a shade.

He drags his gaze up her body to meet hers and she arches one brow. “Firecracker after all,” he says, as good as a concession, and she tries not to laugh as he rises from his seat, setting his drink aside behind her in a way that lets him hover close.

“I’m sure I don’t know _what_ you mean,” she says, guileless mask slipping a little, and he huffs a laugh against her mouth before he kisses her, searching and slow, his hand lighting on her upper arm. She sways into it, slinging her arms around his neck and reeling him in so that his hips push her knees wide, her skirt riding up another increment.

He pulls the ribbon from her hair, biting gently at her earlobe and running his fingers through the soft strands, tugging a little to tip her head to the side. He kisses a line down her neck to the hollow at her collarbone. “Is this all right?” he asks, forehead resting on her shoulder, breath warm on the top of her chest.

“Yes,” she tells him. Instead of going for the buttons on her white blouse as she expects, he presses his open mouth to the cotton, leaving damp prints that make the fabric go transparent, showing the seams of her bra. He bites again, more sharply, and she gasps, nails digging into his shoulder. "Anything, Mr. Solo."

 _"Anything?"_ he asks, sounding intrigued. "I can have you right here on the desk, like this?" He pulls her close by the hips, rutting against her through his slacks, and she moans an affirmative. "And if I wanted your mouth on me? If I wanted you at my beck and call, only for this, day and night?"

 _"Yes,"_ she tells him. "Anything." When he kisses her this time, it's not a seduction but a demand that she happily yields to.

One of his hands is just - _just_ \- creeping up the inside of her leg, fingertips barely brushing her damp curls, when she hears the scuff of a shoe at the door.

Napoleon freezes and she almost groans aloud at the timing. He doesn’t move much, though, aside from turning his head to glance at the intruder. “I hope you got my good side,” he says, giving a nod to Illya’s camera.

“I got what we needed, _da_ ,” Illya says. “You were both very… _convincing_.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a few more angles?” Gaby asks, hitching her leg higher around Napoleon’s flank.

“I think I am done watching,” Illya says, crossing the room and letting his camera drop to one of the chairs with a muffled thump. Napoleon straightens where he stands, accepting Illya's fierce, biting kiss with a pleased noise in the back of his throat. “Six months,” Illya says, as they break apart. “Six _months_ we go without you while you swan about with strange women-”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Napoleon teases. “They meant nothing to me, I swear. Besides, are you saying you and Gaby didn't keep yourselves occupied while I was gone?”

“What he means to say is,” Gaby says, nosing under the angle of Napoleon’s jaw, “we _missed_ you.”

“I missed you too,” Napoleon says, smiling. His fingers curl against her skin, teasingly. "Now, where were we..."

 

 

 

\- end -


End file.
